


Ink and Feathers

by justified_ways



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Child Abuse, Prompt Fill, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 10:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5662987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justified_ways/pseuds/justified_ways
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl is born with a tattoo of angel wings on his back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ink and Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt:  
> 'Daryl’s always been different. The tattoo’d wings on his shoulder blades can tell you that- well, if you knew that they weren’t just tattoos and that Daryl could manifest actual wings. No one in the group knew his secret. He’d been able to keep them under wraps. That was, until Rick Grimes showed up. What was it about the man that made his back itch and his wings ache for release? Why’d he feel like he could so easily trust Rick, when he could barely trust his own brother?'
> 
> Modified to gen/pre-slash and trustworthy Merle.

 

* * *

 

 

Daryl is born with a tattoo of angel wings on his back.

The nurse who guides him into the world gasps as she transfers him to a nearby table to check him over. He squirms in her hands, nearly blind but blinking against the light. She clears his airway, checks his heart and lungs before staring at his back. Trembling fingers on newborn skin.

‘Doctor?’ she asks.

‘Airway cleared?’ He asks while he gets ready to tend to the mother again.

‘Yes.’ Another nurse hands her a towel and she rubs the boy dry and clean before nestling him in a soft blanket. A hat is gently pulled over the first few tuffs of blond hair. ‘It’s a boy,’ she says just as the little bundle in her arms starts to cry.

Small, pathetic noises which cause everyone in the room to give a sigh of relief.

‘Daryl,’ the mother says. She gives the nurse a tired smile. ‘His name is Daryl. Is he… is he all right?’

‘Yes, yes,’ the nurse smiles. ‘He is better than all right; he’s marked!’

The doctor’s head snap up, ‘really? Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure, Derek. He’s got wings on his back for goodness sake! Here he comes, mommy,’ she gently places the little boy in his mother’s arms. ‘There you go, aw, look at that.’

The mother smiles down at Daryl, running a finger over the little cheek, ‘hey handsome,’ she whispers. ‘I’m your momma, hmm, yes, yes, I am. Hi.’

The nurse beams at the doctor, ‘first time we’ve ever delivered a marked one, right? When I saw that tattoo… Oh my goodness, look!’

In his mother’s arms, Daryl cries softly, paws at his own face by accident before curling up. He shivers a bit, and then something wriggles on his back. His mother pushes the blanket down for him. Small, white wings snap into existence from the tattoo. They curl around the little boy to keep him warm.

 

02

His dad makes sure that he knows he ain’t no damn angel.

Daryl is seven years old and terrified. There are loud footsteps on the stairs, coming up to his room. He thinks about hiding under the bed, but that would only make things worse. His dad knows he’s up here. So he sits in the corner, hugs his knees and prays that Merle will be home soon. The wings burst from his tattoo. They wrap around him like a shield, too soft to be of any use but still warm and comforting.

The door is kicked open. The lock was broken a long time ago.

His father screams at him. He tries not to listen but knows that it doesn’t really matter anyway. The reason for this latest fit might be unclear but it always comes down to the same thing.

He is worthless.

He is no angel.

It’s all his fault.

It might have been the latest letter of his school, informing his parents that they have alerted child protective services, or it might have been a reporter wanting to do a follow-up story about marked children and how special they are, or it might have been the simple fact that they ran out of beer or cigarettes.

It doesn’t matter.

‘Look at ya,’ the father sneers at the boy. ‘Hiding behind those damn faggot wings like the little bitch ya are. Think ya’re so special, huh? Well, lemme tell you what ya really are, son; a freak. A goddamn abomination. Hell, and you’re just parading them around, huh? Like a dumb bitch, showing off your pretty little wings, now.’ He grabs the boy’s arm and hauls him to his feet. The alcohol on his breath causes his son to whimper.

‘I’m sorry!’ Daryl begs, ‘I can’t help it!’

‘Shut it. Think you’re so special ‘cause you got them fuckin’ wings growing out of your back like a goddamn cancer? You’re not special. And you’re no damn angel! Put them back, boy! I don’t wanna see them.’

Daryl cries and his wings flutter uselessly. ‘I can’t, I don’t know how! I can’t make them go away!’

‘Then I’ll just have to do it for you, hmm?’

Daryl screams as his dad drags him through the room and throws him onto the bed. Strong hands push his head into a pillow, smothering his protestations and terrified shouting. Then, a knee in the small of his back, just one hand in his hair, pushing hard as the other hand curls around his wings, fingers sinking into feathers.

Pain shoots down his back, causing the boy to trash on the bed, trying to squirm away.

And then the hand yanks back. A fist full of feathers. And Daryl _screams_.

‘What kind of angel doesn’t have fuckin’ wings,’ his dad mocks above him, tearing out another handful of feathers.

Daryl cries, tears hot on his cheeks. He might be begging, he doesn’t even know. His fingers dig into his pillow. His back feels like it’s on fire.

Again, loud footsteps on the stairs. Running this time, instead of a drunken swagger, and the door burst open a second time.

Daryl squints up through his tears and hair, biting down on the pillow to swallow his screams.

Merle looks horrified. ‘Dad,’ he starts, ‘the fuck are you doin’?’

‘Teachin’ the boy a damn lesson,’ their dad growls.

‘He’s seven.’ Merle objects as he staggers to the bed. There are torn-out feathers on the blanket, on the floor and his brother’s wings are a bloody mess. ‘He’s _seven_ for God’s sake!’

‘Old enough to know how to behave.’

‘Merle,’ Daryl sobs, one trembling hand reaching for his older brother.

‘Shut up.’ Their dad strike him with a bloody fist, right in the corner of his mouth.

‘No!’ Merle lunges at their father, tackling him to the ground with teenage force. ‘Run, Daryl! Get the fuck out!’

 

Merle finds him hours later in Mrs. Jones’ living room. The boy is curled up behind the couch, damaged wings curled around him and still shivering. There’s a blanket draped over him, his feet tucked in and the blood has been removed. The wings are white as snow, plucked bare in some places.

‘They’ll grow back,’ the old lady says. ‘Time heals all wounds, after all.’

Merle scoffs and sinks down on the floor next to his little brother. Ices his own swollen cheek. ‘Don’t understand why ya gotta yank his chain like that,’ he mutters. ‘Ya know he hates them wings.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Daryl cries, words muffled by remaining feathers. ‘I can’t control it.’

Merle snorts and shakes his head. ‘Well, ya better learn. And fast.’

 

03

He spends hours practicing in front of the mirror.

Wings in, wings out, ink, feathers, ink, feathers.

When the sun starts to sink, he grins at himself over his shoulder. Ink dark on his pale skin.

‘Open up, little brother,’ Merle hollers suddenly, banging on the door. ‘Gotta piss!’

The wings burst into existence again. They shove a bottle of shaving cream onto the floor when he whips around, heart pounding in his throat. ‘Fucking asshole,’ he whispers and his wings ruffle in agreement. He yanks the bathroom door open.

Merle frowns as he squeezes past, ‘the fuck were you doin’ all this time? Preenin’? You a peacock now?’

‘Fuck off, Merle. I was practicing to keep them in. Worked until your loud mouth threw me off, dammit.’

‘Our sensitive little angel can’t handle old Merle asking to take a piss in his own goddamn bathroom? Huh? That it?’

Daryl frowns and kicks the door closed. ‘Ain’t no angel!’

 

04

‘What’s with the tattoo?’

Daryl glares at the guy and spits on the grounds, ‘what, ain’t never seen a damn tattoo before?’

The man eyes his back, ‘not like that. Where’d you get it done?’

‘Some place south,’ Daryl mutters before sliding off the fence, ‘you wouldn’t know it. C’mon, let’s get this fuckin’ hole fixed. Wanna get paid today.’

‘Amen,’ the guy breathes before driving a nail into the wood.

 

05

Several years later, the dead rise.

Daryl trudges after his brother like he’s done since the day he was born. Head low, shoulders drooping but with a wary look in his eyes. He doesn’t care where they’re going. Atlanta. Further south, up North, hell, it makes no difference to him.

Merle is loud and obnoxious but blood, so it’s better than nothing, he supposes. They manage to get out of their little town with most of their stuff but get stuck in a damn traffic jam near Atlanta city.

They watch how the city gets bombed. Two brothers, standing on their truck, dark shadows against explosions in the distance.

Merle looks at him, ‘you scared, boy?’

‘No.’

‘You stupid then?’

‘No,’ he scoffs. ‘You don’t make it out of life alive. And hell, those deads we’ve seen? They were dumber than your damn dealers.’ He meets his brother’s eye, ‘we’ll manage.’

‘’course we will, baby brother,’ Merle says as he slams a hand down on his shoulder, ‘’course we will. Besides, what was it that faggot reporter wrote about you in them papers way back when?’ He hoots as Daryl scowls, ‘ _God loves ya_! That was some funny shit. Hell, your own daddy didn’t even love you, but sure, God loves you. C’mon, see that group over there? With those sweet little blonde things? Gonna tack on to that until we know what’s going on out there. Just follow my lead, little brother.’

Daryl sighs and looks at the small group that is forming in the middle of the traffic jam. Two blonde women. A family with their little boy. Another family with a little girl. An old guy and Chinese kid.

He looks back at the burning city. The wings beneath his skin twitch but he keeps them in.

‘Whatever,’ he mutters before jumping down from the truck and following his brother.

 

06

‘Damn, son!’

A rough hand shoves his shoulder, a boot kicks his leg. Daryl groans sleepily, ‘fuck off, Merle, let me sleep for once.’

‘Best get your wing out of my damn face then!’

Daryl opens his eyes, ‘sorry man, happens in my sleep sometimes, give me a sec.’

‘Just fucking _move_ it,’ Merle growls.

Daryl blinks and shifts the wing lower. It’s now stretched out over his brother’s chest and hips, the tip reaching his arm. The other wing is curled around himself, protecting him from the cold. Merle huffs and turns to his side. The move causes him to shift closer to his brother. The wing brushes over his shoulder, curls around him out of instinct.

‘I didn’t mean to let them out,’ he murmurs. ‘Was probably cold or something.’

‘Yeah, we were,’ Merle says. ‘And now we ain’t, so shut up and sleep.’

Daryl grins and lets the wing curl tighter around his brother. ‘All right.’

 

07

It happens over time, like most things do. Must have, because the first time Daryl saw Rick Grimes, he wanted to rip the other man’s throat out.

But now they’re standing side by side in the clearing. The wind rushes through the forest surrounding them, telling its strange tales in the quiet of summer. Daryl listens to it while Rick just tilts his head back to soak in the rays of sunshine. The wind comes from the north but no longer bears the sting of winter.

He wishes he could feel it rush through his wings.

The tattoo aches on his back.

But no. His brother is gone and everyone else believes that the tattoo is just that; ink.

He doesn’t want to see their faces when they realize that it’s a _mark_. That they’re real. People usually fall into two camps; the ones who adore and the ones who hate. He doesn’t feel like finding out in which camp Rick belongs.

‘Beautiful day, right?’ Rick asks because he loves small talk.

Daryl grunts because he doesn’t.

‘Think we can find some good game today?’

‘If you learn how to shut the fuck up,’ Daryl nods.

Rick grins at him and slaps his shoulder, ‘you’re right. I’ll put a foot in it. Lead the way then.’

Daryl does, of course. He’s lucky that he can rely on his instincts to hunt, instead of his brain, because right now he’s far too busy with willing his wings to stay beneath his skin than to ponder whether a buck ever even came across these parts of the forest.

 

08

A run goes tits up and Daryl finds himself covered in walker gore. There’s blood in his hair, on his skin, under his fingernails and even in his mouth. The stench is revolting, causes him to almost throw up when they finally stumble out of the car and into their camp.

The group fusses over Rick, who had been his back-up, and he managed to slip away towards the stream. He falls onto he knees near the water, dunking his head in first and cleaning his face and hair. Then he washes his hands. Once, twice, until he yanks his shirt over his head, kicks his boots off and throws himself into the water with a curse.

That helps. The grime melts away in the clear water, traces of brown and red and black in the blue. He washes every inch of skin that is available before hoisting himself back onto the bank.

There, he sits for a couple of moments. He looks over his shoulder. There’s no one there. The camp is further out. They won’t be able to see him from over there.

Somethings nags at the back of his mind but he shakes his hair out of his face and lets the wings bloom on his back. So big they cast a shadow behind him. He cups his hands and washes the feathers.

‘Dad, look!’ A voice shouts behind him just as another breathes; ‘oh my God.’

Daryl whips around, wings flaring for a second to keep his balance, and glares at Carl and Rick. ‘What the fuck are ya doin’ here?’

Carl’s mouth is hanging open, eye huge as he takes in the wings. They twitch under the boy’s scrutiny.

Rick blinks stupidly, tries to say something, clears his throat and tries again, ‘I – we – same as you, I guess.’ He gestures at his blood-soaked clothes and skin. ‘Cleaning up.’

‘The fuck are you starin’ at,’ Daryl snaps at the kid.

Carl’s amazed gaze tears away from the wings for a second to meet the hunter’s eye, ‘you have wings. On your back.’

‘Think I don’t know that?’ Daryl grabs his shirt and closes his eyes, breathing in deeply. The wings melt away into his skin, quivering and objecting, until his tattoo just burns with the memory of soothing water and clean feathers. He shrugs on his shirt and stomps past the father and son. ‘Say anything to anyone about this,’ he growls when passing, ‘and I’ll put you in your fuckin’ grave.’

 

09

‘So you’re marked.’

Daryl is on guard duty when Rick saunters over to finally have this conversation. The hunter scowls but figures that he’s had three days of blessed rest before the question finally spilled from the cop’s lips, so he can’t complain, really. He cleans his nails with a sharp blade, gaze shifting from the fields to his hands. ‘What’s it to you?’ he asks.

‘Just curious.’

‘Big ass wings on my back weren’t enough of a clue? Ain’t some genetic defect or nothin’. ‘Course I’m fuckin’ _marked_.’

Rick squats down next to him, leaning back on his heels. ‘Can you fly?’

‘Nah, but throw me off a cliff and I’ll land fine.’ He spits into the grass next to him. ‘They ain’t big enough to fly.’

‘So why do you have them?’

Daryl glances at the former cop. No one has ever asked him that. Usually, people already have all sorts of theories. Most rely on religion for an explanation, saying that those with markings are blessed and preferred by their respective Gods. Others cling to science, chance, and mutations. Just a rare mistake somewhere in his genes, a defect of sorts. Though no one has yet figured out which gene spells out _; feathers or ink, one or the other at all times_.

There had been others, of course. Men and women throughout the ages, blessed with all sorts of traits. Tails. Horns. Claws. Any type of wing. There had been a girl, a couple of years before Daryl had been born, who had had wings of a butterfly. Born with a tattoo, marked, but always eager to spread those delicate wings for pictures. Once, a baby boy had been born with the mark of a claw on his chest, over his heart. They say he’d killed his brother by accidentally swiping at him during a childhood scuffle. The blunt fingernails had shifted to a tiger’s claws just before they’d punctured the skin.

‘Cosmic joke,’ Daryl deadpans because he has the wings of an angel. And he’s anything but.

Rick huffs out a breath of laughter and nods as he picks up a pebble. ‘Right. Does it hurt to get them out?’

‘No.’

The cop throws the pebble in the air and catches it again. ‘Does it hurt to keep them in, then?’

Daryl throws him a glare, ‘sometimes. Why?’

‘No reason. Just wondering why we haven’t seen them before, is all.’

Michonne appears in his peripheral vision, trudging through the high grass to get to the watch spot so she can take the next shift.

‘’cause they’re fucking useless, is why,’ Daryl growls as he gets to his feet and goes to meet the woman halfway.

 

10

Several months later they’re sitting on the side of a lake. Daryl, Rick and Carl. The boy is holding a fishing rod, eyes glued to the smooth surface and his line. The sheriff is cleaning his gun. The hunter just sits there.

It’s hot. There’s sweat running down all of their necks and Carl has kicked off his boots to let his feet dangle down into the cool water. Rick isn’t wearing a shirt.

A light breeze ghosts past them every now and then, hardly enough to offer some relief from the sun but enough to make Daryl’s back ache with want.

He came with them to keep watch while the boy fishes and the father teaches him another skill that doesn’t involve pulling triggers or driving knives home. It’s been quiet all morning. He only had to get up once to deal with a stray walker.

There’s a bucket standing a little ways away from them, filled with water and a couple of fish Carl already caught.

Daryl keeps stealing glances at the pair and Rick pretends not to notice. Carl really doesn’t, too focused on his line and job for today.

A drop of sweat runs down Daryl’s back, over the burning tattoo. He shifts uncomfortably.

Rick pretends not to see.

The leather vest has already been thrown aside. He’s wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. It clings to his body but isn’t heavy enough to remind his ink of constraints. He feels the wings flutter beneath his skin.

He steals another look.

Rick checks the barrel of his gun and doesn’t say anything.

‘Fuckin’ heat, man,’ Daryl grouses as he wipes sweat away from his brow. ‘Wanna head back soon?’

Rick puts the gun into his holster and leans back on his elbows. ‘Not really. It’s nice being out of that prison for once. He likes fishing. Couple more hours, or until he gets sick of it. You can go back, if you want. Just be careful on your own.’

‘Better on my own,’ Daryl murmurs out of habit. Rick doesn’t correct him even though they both know he could. The hunter shrugs. ‘I’ll stay. Keep watch.’

‘Good.’

He doesn’t have to. It’s been a slow morning and Rick is more than capable of keeping an eye out. Even Carl is carrying his gun on this little outing.

They’re silent for a couple of minutes. Rick splashes some water in his face and then follows his son’s example by kicking his boots off and dunking his feet. He hums happily as he wiggles his toes.

The annoying sensation of his wings moving beneath his skin starts to have a sting to it. The feathers grate his nerves.

Daryl looks at Rick again. The sheriff has closed his eyes, utterly relaxed as he lounges in the sun.

‘Fuck this,’ Daryl mutters and starts to unbutton his shirt.

That causes Rick to look over for a second. Even Carl casts a look but the boy shrugs and turns back to the water when a fish steals his bait.

Rick already knows about the scars. Must have seen them when he had been confined to the bed by Hershel, or on countless other occasions since they’ve been living in close quarters. And Carl has seen much worse things than old battle wounds, he reckons. It won’t matter, he tells himself sternly.

And they already know about the other thing.

The shirt slides down his arms and is thrown on his vest.

The wings bloom into existence immediately.

‘Fuck,’ Daryl groans as his nerves settle at last. The sun feels golden on his feathers.

Carl’s head whips around when he catches the movement out of the corner of his eye. The blue eyes grow wide. He laughs softly, whole face lighting up at the sight of the angel wings. ‘So fucking cool,’ he whispers.

‘Language,’ Rick reminds him, though it sounds more like a habit than actual chiding.

Daryl glares at them. Daring the pair of Grimes’ to say anything else about the matter. His hand curls into a fist because of nerves, maybe even fear if he’s honest with himself. People fall into two camps. Love, hate. And Rick hasn’t said anything yet. Hasn’t decided, maybe.

‘Can I touch them?’ Carl asks eagerly, twisting around so he’s facing the hunter. ‘Please?’

The hunter tilts his chin higher. He glances at Rick who is watching the pair of them. ‘Yeah,’ he says after a beat of silence. ‘Just – don’t be grabbing on them. Real careful,’ he warns with a terse nod at his wings. ‘They’re – it hurts if ya… Just be careful.’

The kid nods solemnly before crawling closer. He stretches out his arm, reaching for him.

Out of instinct, Daryl lets his wings flare out in warning. ‘Shit, sorry,’ he says when the boy shrinks back, ‘ain’t nothin’, just a twitch. Here,’ he reaches out himself and takes hold of Carl’s wrist. He places the hand on his wing.

‘Wow,’ the boy breathes, looking at him in awe before focusing on the feathers. He strokes them gently. His fingers wrap around one of them, so careful that Daryl can barely feel it. ‘They’re so soft. Dad!’ Carl looks over his shoulder and beams at his father.

Rick watches them with a gentle smile on his face.

‘Can you fly?’ Carl asks eagerly.

Daryl snorts and Rick grins. ‘No,’ the hunter says, ‘they ain’t big enough.’

‘Still really cool,’ Carl beams at him. ‘Is it still a secret? Can I tell Michonne that I touched them?’

Daryl looks at Rick, who avoids his questioning gaze. It’s his decision.

‘Ya can tell her,’ he says, ‘but just us, you know? Don’t need the whole Woodbury gang comin’ down on my wings, trying to turn me in a damn dog they can pet.’

Carl retracts his hand like he’s been burned. ‘I didn’t mean-‘

Daryl smirks and swipes at him with one of his wings, the move practiced by years of having Merle around. It knocks the boy on his ass. 'Said ya could, didn’t I? Just don’t go braggin’ about it.’

 

11

They sit side by side.

Rick looks at the wings. And Daryl, too.

They don’t say anything.

 

12

‘You know,’ Rick says as he watches how Carl heads back to the prison. The boy is carrying the bucket with fish, enough to feed a large portion of the population. Together with the game Daryl caught yesterday, it will make a wonderful meal. ‘I think Dale was right about what he said.’

Daryl frowns as he reaches for his shirt and vest, ‘he said a whole bunch of things, man.’

The wings on his back flare out one last time. He rakes his hands through the feathers, combing out loose ones. They fall onto the grass.

Rick watches, eyes roaming over the white wings until he settles on blue eyes. ‘He said this new world is ugly. I think he was right about that.’

‘Hmm,’ Daryl hums as he closes his eyes and lets the wings sink back into his skin. Then he pulls his shirt and vest back on. The crossbow is thrown over a shoulder before he lifts an eyebrow. ‘Wanna get goin’ now, officer?’

Rick nods. ‘Yeah, just –‘ He leans down and grabs one of the white feathers from the grass. He lets it twirl between his fingers. ‘I don’t think your wings are useless. They’re beautiful.’ He gives the hunter a small smile and tucks the feather behind his ear, nestling it in his curls. ‘I think we can all use more beautiful things in our lives right now.’

 


End file.
